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The Mirror
by
Barbara Everidge Tillison
When I was
but a wee lass
I chanced upon a looking glass.
Its frame was cracked, old and yellow
On its back a carved face soft and mellow
As I gazed into its silvery pane
I thought for sure that I must be insane.
For there I saw not my reflection
But a land of beauty and perfection.
Its majestic view held my gaze
As I drifted into its silvery haze.
At once I longed to be in that land
Then I felt a soft tingling in my hand
Turning over the mirror I could see
That kind gentle face staring at me
Not now my child, someday you will hear
The sound of My voice calling you near
Until then, just a glimpse of things to be
As long as you continue to believe in Me.
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